


Touchstone, Command, and Pivot

by Sibilant



Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Borderline Non-Consensual Sex, Developing Relationship, Dubious Consent, Dubious Ethics, Hate Sex, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Power Play, Public Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-11-28 01:26:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/668694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sibilant/pseuds/Sibilant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time it happens, it's because Bane gives him an impossible choice; John's just trying to do the best he can with the limited options he's given. He tells himself that, the second time it happens. And the third. But for every time after that, John's got no excuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First, Second and Third

**Author's Note:**

> Started anonymously [here](http://tdkr-kink.livejournal.com/3076.html?thread=2805764#t2805764) on the TDKR Kink Meme, but it is being re-posted and continued here on AO3 because my irritation at the typos outweighs my prudishness.
> 
> WARNING: This fic contains graphic depictions of non-con and dub-con, and is generally irresponsible in the handling of both. It also depicts power play and violence during sex, dubious vigilante ethics, and features the death of a child. Please use your own discretion when reading.

The first time it happens, John doesn’t plan on it.

They’re fighting in an alley, rain-slicked and grimy, and John’s combat boots are having difficulty finding purchase on wet pavement. If Bane is having the same trouble, he isn’t showing it. He isn’t even breathing hard although his shoulders – those fucking massive slabs of muscle – seem to heave more than usual when he lunges in, intending to smack John’s head into the brick wall behind. John dodges out from beneath Bane’s arms; whirls back around to deliver two quick jabs under Bane’s ribs.

Bane grunts as the blows land and he twists – fast, _inhumanly_ fast – sending a punch toward John’s face that John barely manages to avoid. He flinches away – fuck, _fuck, no, wrong move_ – and that allows Bane to follow up with another punch, and John’s only option then is to take it, turning away to absorb the hit against his side. Better that than a direct hit to the sternum. But the blow still knocks all the breath out of him, rattling his bones, and John staggers.

He’s been doing this Nightwing gig for six months and he’s gotten far, far better at it than when he first started.

But it’s still not enough to save him.

Bane presses his advantage, brings his elbow up and around, strikes John in his side a second time. A third strike, straight to John’s cheekbone, makes his head snap back. He feels his skull crack sharply against brick and _shit_ — Bane’s managed to knock him _across the alley_.

Spots in his vision. Acid-bitter taste of blood on his tongue.

Bane grabs John by the arm and spins him. Slams him up against the wall and grinds John’s face against the brick with his other hand. John twists in Bane’s grip, tries to kick back, but Bane simply kicks John’s feet apart and then _hefts_ , lifting John off his feet completely.

John hangs there – feet dangling off the ground and his chest and the side of his face scraping the wall – completely helpless, as Bane lowers his head over John’s shoulder. The cold bristling mask brushes John’s neck and John jerks, thrashing wildly, because fuck it, even if it’s futile, he’s not going out without a fight.

“Fuck you, _fuck you—_ ” John spits, impotent rage boiling in him.

“An invitation, Blake?” Bane asks. It sounds almost idle save for the sinister curl lurking immediately behind it, but John freezes at his name. _How does Bane know his name—?_ The sudden fear makes him buck harder, snapping like a feral animal.

“ _Fuck you_. It’s a _threat_. I’m going to fuck you _up_ —”

Bane leans back slightly. John feels Bane’s fingers curling in his hair and then Bane slams his head against the wall; not hard – not nearly at his full strength, John’s still _conscious_ – but enough to make his point.

John blinks stars out of his vision again as Bane says slowly, “Do you _feel_ like you’re capable of that?” He moves the hand on John’s arm up to John’s shoulder and squeezes. John feels the bones grinding together, and Bane’s fingers are blunt, aching points of pain—

God. _Oh God_. Bane’s going to kill him, and John knows there’s nothing more he can do. He sags in Bane’s grip, slowly, reluctantly, hating himself for every uncoiling muscle.

Bane makes a contemptuous, satisfied sound at his ear and says, darkly amused, “What did you hope to achieve in fighting me?”

“You’re a murderer. You’re a terrorist. You deserve to be in prison.”

“And you thought _you_ could accomplish that?”

“I wasn’t just going to let you _go_ ,” John snaps. "And there'll be others who’ll come after you, even if you kill me."

A dry, pronounced chuckle. Bane is silent for a full minute before he says, no louder than a hollow murmur, “I will not kill you, John Blake. But I will offer you information, and then a choice. We are in pursuit of the same man. He is a former member of the League of Shadows and he fled like a coward when the fighting was over. Fled, while his brothers were rounded up like cattle and fed to your country’s pathetic prison system.

“But I have found him, Blake, whereas you are still sniffing about like a dog, trailing further behind while he amasses more victims. He will kill more, unless one of us deals with him. So the choice I offer you is this. Leave him to me to deal with as I see fit—”

“Let you _murder_ him, you mean? Fuck no. That’s the easy way out for you people. No. He’s a piece of shit who should go to prison along with the rest of your—”

Bane’s hand moves from John’s hair to wrap around his throat and he squeezes until John’s voice – John’s _breath_ – slides out in a whine.

“Do not interrupt me again,” Bane warns. John drags a breath in past the pressure. Bane doesn’t release him, maintains that bruising grip around his throat as he continues. “Leave him to me to deal with as I see fit, or—” his voice turns predatory, dark, “—submit to me, and I will give you his whereabouts and let you deal with it as _you_ see fit.” Another hissing breath and then he lets John's throat go, hand returning to John’s head to pin it in place.

John swallows. “Submit to you?” he asks, even as ice water sluices through his veins and fear roils in his gut. Bane can’t mean—

“Submit to me,” Bane says mercilessly. “Lower yourself to your knees, offer your body up for me to use as I wish. Do so, and I will give you your quarry.” Bane shifts closer, crushing John further into the wall and it's then that John feels it. The length of Bane’s hardness pressing up against his ass.

Fear, naked and unadulterated, locks John’s body up and he gasps out, “What— what kind of sick fucking choice is _that_? Why would you want to—”

Bane snarls, actually _snarls_ , like an animal. He shakes John once, hard. “You dare ask _why_? You are Gordon’s pet and Bruce Wayne’s successor. Dual insults to her memory and for that you _will_ be punished.” He pauses, taking in deep, furious breaths. When he speaks again, his voice has only a thin veneer of control. The threat of violence behind it makes John shudder. “Make your choice. Save yourself and accept the death of one man hanging about your neck. Or sell your body for information on his whereabouts and preserve your much-vaunted morality.” The sneer in his voice is palpable.

Johns trembles, still held aloft by the strength of Bane’s arms alone. He can’t get away; Bane won’t let him get away. He has to make a choice, but he can’t.

He can’t do this.

John wants to scream, or cry, or beat his fists bloody against the wall. He’s tempted to save himself. He’s so very tempted to save himself, which is the entire point of Bane’s fucked up game, he knows.

Bane wants John to fall. He wants John to break.

John’s not going to give him the satisfaction.

“Put me down,” he says, masking the tremor in his voice as best as he can. “I’ll—” his voice falters as his throat dries out. He has to swallow repeatedly before he manages to say, “I’ll submit.”

Bane’s laugh is low and menacing as he lowers John back to the ground. But he doesn’t let go and he doesn’t let John turn around. The hand on John’s head moves to caress the side of John’s face, his neck, in a grotesque parody of affection. John doesn’t flinch. He bites his tongue instead. He won’t beg Bane to please, _please let him go_.

He won’t give Bane that, not on top of what Bane’s going to take from him.

It feels like an eternity – John doesn’t turn his head to look, but he can feel Bane’s eyes on his body – before Bane growls, “Put your hands up against the wall.”

Hands shaking, John obeys. Another satisfied sound from Bane and his left hand settles around John’s throat again, not squeezing this time, as the hand on John’s shoulder moves to slide along John’s chest and then down. The muscles in John’s shoulders tighten as he fights the urge to flinch. That doesn’t deter Bane at all and he keeps sliding his hand down until he’s cupping John’s dick through the uniform in one big hand.

John’s uniform isn’t as heavily armoured as Batman’s was — he doesn’t have the muscle strength to move about in a full Kevlar and titanium-fibre suit — so he can feel every caress and rub of Bane’s fingers as he—

“What—” John chokes out, jerking away involuntarily.

Bane’s hand flexes around his throat in warning before relaxing. “There’ll be no blanking your mind and pretending it’s not happening to you,” he says, sinister. “If I am to have you, I will have you alert, _aware_ of what I’m doing to you. To that effect, I will not come until you do.”

John wants to retch. “That wasn’t part of the deal—”

“The agreement was that you let me use your body in any way I wish. And this is how I wish to have it,” Bane says, unyielding.

 _Christ._ Defeated, John drops his head forward to rest against the wall.

Bane chuckles, pleased at the show of surrender, and he moves his hand from John’s throat to brace himself against the wall. He knows John isn’t going anywhere now. “That’s better, John,” he says, and John _knows_ Bane’s using his name deliberately, ensuring John stays grounded in his head, in his body. Bane’s a sick, terrifying son of a bitch and John’s fucked up, he’s fucked up _so badly_ in thinking he could best Bane in a test of wills.

Bane’s hand starts working at John’s cock again, rough, grasping strokes through the uniform. John squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t get it up. He _can’t_ , but he has to— _fuck_ —

But he does get hard. Bane works him relentlessly until his body responds, little licks of sensation at first, growing until he’s swollen and stiff against Bane’s palm. The first full bolt of arousal takes him by surprise; it shoots along his cock, gathers in his balls, before racing up his spine. John lets out an involuntary, punched-out gasp, and Bane makes a faux-soothing noise in response, massaging his palm against John’s cock like he’s easing away an ache. Except each movement sends sweet, hot sparks through John, and it feels good, _so fucking good_ that John’s rocking forward into Bane’s hand, over and over, panting and hating himself for it. John’s jaw drops and there’s pressure in his throat as he tries to suppress his groan. Tries to suppress it and fails, oh _God_ —

Bane’s free hand cups his jaw, turns John’s head so he’s looking into Bane’s eyes as the humiliating sounds keep pouring out of his mouth. “Keep your eyes open, John,” Bane says, at the first flutter of John’s eyelids. John’s eyes widen obediently – he has to _obey_ – and Bane holds his stare. John can see everything in Bane’s eyes: lust and fury and satisfaction and hard, _savage_ spite. The shame ignites in John’s chest, almost as strong as the pleasure. It makes him pant harder, moan louder and, _oh Jesus_ , he’s _sick_ , just as sick as Bane is.

Bane shifts even closer, crowding John against the wall, rubbing himself against John’s ass and it shouldn’t feel good, but it _does_. John rocks his hips back into that hardness then forward into Bane’s hand, cursing himself all the while because what the _fuck_ is wrong with him?

Then Bane’s hands let him go entirely and John can’t help the frantic noise that slips out. Bane laughs at that, malicious and pleased that he’s reduced John to this— this desperate, mewing slut. “Patience,” he says with mocking gentleness, as he reaches into a pocket.

John freezes when he catches sight of the lube packets. The smile in Bane’s eyes is terrible and cruel when John raises his eyes to meets them. “You didn’t think you found me by chance, did you?” he asks. “I’ve been waiting, John. And you came to me so very willingly.”

John can’t move. It feels like his limbs have turned to stone, though his cock continues to throb, unabated. Even his horror isn’t enough to make his dick go down _(he’s so fucked in the head)_ though it effectively holds him immobile as Bane strips the lower half of his uniform from him with quick, sure movements. He’s been stupid – worse than stupid – and he’s let himself be trapped by Bane—

The sound of foil tearing catches his attention. Bane’s fingers are shiny-slick in the meagre light from the end of the alley, and John chokes on his next breath as Bane trails a finger down the crack of his ass, musing. He slides half of a finger in – stopping at John’s ragged breath – and simply pumps it shallowly, slowly.

“Do you regret it now?” Bane taunts as John shudders. “Do you wish you’d chosen otherwise?”

 _No_ , John thinks. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he'd chosen to let a man be killed by Bane, no matter how depraved that man may be. “ _No,_ ” John forces out.

Pitiless pleasure in Bane’s eyes. “ _Good,_ ” he breathes, and he pushes two fingers into John.

John shouts at the intrusion. It’s too much, too soon. Bane obviously doesn’t care. He pumps his fingers at the same constant, ruthlessly slow pace he'd used before. John squirms against the feeling, gets a warning growl in response, and goes still again.

But then Bane does something – changes the angle or crooks his fingers – _something_ that sends a white-hot jolt straight down John’s cock, makes his toes curl, and John’s arching, shouting for an entirely different reason. He rocks mindlessly back onto Bane’s fingers and that wins him a hiss of satisfaction from Bane. Shame and humiliation are a distant shadow in John’s head, dwarfed by the suddenly urgent, _insistent_ ache in his cock and John reaches down thoughtlessly—

Gets slapped _hard_ for it. “Did I say you could do that?” Bane asks, all casual confidence, still working his fingers inside John. John shakes his head mutely, but Bane says, “Answer me, John.”

He wants John to talk. John doesn’t think he _can_ talk past the mind-blurring pleasure, he just _wants_ , keeps rocking onto Bane’s fingers as a whine claws its way up his throat. But he’s mindful of the slap, knows he’ll get another if he doesn’t respond soon, so he opens his mouth and— “Ah— ah _fuck_ , God—” he babbles.

“That isn’t what I asked,” Bane says, keen enjoyment plain to hear.

“You didn’t,” John gasps out finally, “You didn’t say I could.” God, oh God, he wants more—

“Good,” Bane says again, and pulls his fingers out.

“ _Fuck—_ ”

John arches unthinkingly after him, stunned and desperate. Bane runs a hand down John’s spine, fingers tracing the vertebrae. It's a sharp contrast to the callousness he'd just displayed.

“If we had found you first,” he says, seemingly to himself, before trailing off. John glances over his shoulder at Bane, but keeps his hands braced against the wall. Bane looks pensive; too still. For a moment, he looks almost— vulnerable. The look changes the instant he catches John looking. Bane's eyes harden and his shoulders pull back. He shoves John roughly until he’s facing the wall again.

John hears the snap and clinks of buckles and straps being undone, hears more foil crinkling. His heart thunders in his ears and, all too soon, Bane is behind him again. John locks up entirely when he feels the blunt press of Bane’s dick – thick, blood-hot – at his entrance.

“This will go poorly for you if you don’t relax,” Bane says, threat and arrogance mingling in his voice.

But he’s right. John knows he is, so he forces himself to take deep, steadying breaths. Clamps down on the fear that threatens to overtake him.

Bane pushes into him, inexorable, and it _hurts_. John makes an agonised sound against the blunt pain, wants to pull away. Knows it will only end badly for him if he does, but wants to anyway. Bane doesn't stop at all. After what feels like an eternity of pain, Bane bottoms out in him. John can feel Bane’s breath rasping through the mask against the back of his neck.

Bane shifts his hips once and it’s— it’s painful but mainly just awkward. Bane does it again, then again, rocking a little harder each time, a growl escaping from him as he does so. And this is— it’s _not_ okay, in no sense is it okay – not in the slightest – but John can handle it if this is all it is. He can let Bane use his body like this. He can just check out of his body, despite what Bane said—

As if reading John’s thoughts, Bane’s hand reaches around and wraps around John's dick and John’s traitorous fucking body moves into the touch.

 _No,_ John wants to say. _No, no_ —

And then: _fuck_ and _God yes_ , as Bane moves at a different angle and slides his hand up John’s cock at the same time. Pain and arousal twine together in a spark that grows and races along his nerves. That haze of _good God yes_ pervasive pleasure sinks into his skin. John feels hypersensitive as Bane crowds him against the wall, keeping his body still and pushing John’s head down, as he fucks him in fast, sure strokes.

John pants, thought-blank, but hyperaware of everything. The sweet-painful- _good_ shock with each stroke of Bane’s cock inside him; the shiver up his belly as Bane works his hand up and down John’s length; the rasps and groans in Bane’s voice as he fucks into John recklessly, hissing words that John hears but doesn’t understand— he doesn’t understand anything beyond the hard, feral, _possessive_ tone to them.

John rocks himself up onto his toes, drops himself back down as Bane fucks upward. It’s gone hard and brutal; John’s being pushed to the brink of what he can bear and he wants _more_ — he wants to come, it’s just out of reach and he realises he’s _begging_. “Please, please, fuck, _please—_ ”

Bane snarls and slams into John harder, squeezes John on the upstroke and _yes, fuck yes_ —

John comes with a sharp cry, shudders running the length of his body. Bane fucks him through it, unrelenting, until John’s shivering, twitching away involuntarily, overly sensitive. But Bane doesn’t stop, all his attention focused on his own pleasure now. And John doesn’t want to, but he can’t help focusing on the feel of Bane’s bulk between his legs, the overwhelming strength of his body. It makes him breathless and aching in ways he can’t understand, _doesn’t want to understand_.

Bane’s sounds are growing rougher, harsher and John can feel the huge muscles in Bane’s thighs tensing. He’s right on the edge and John wants him to come and he doesn’t; he wants it to be over and he doesn’t. But his body takes over with an instinct older than mankind and he lifts his hips – meeting Bane's again, thrust for thrust – and, with one particularly vicious roll of his hips, Bane comes. His thrusts turn erratic. One of his hands comes up to cover John’s hand where it’s still braced against the wall, clenching it painfully as he rides out his orgasm.

And then it’s over.

John collapses against the wall, stunned, letting it hold him up as Bane pulls out without care. He’s gasping roughly for air. They both are. The hand covering John’s is trembling slightly and John stares at it, uncomprehending, before risking a glance over his shoulder at Bane. Bane’s eyes are glassy and blank. There’s no sense of the predatory power he'd possessed before.

He looks just as wrecked as John feels.

Finally, Bane pulls away entirely. John stays against the wall, hands still up against the brick. He doesn’t want to move yet, doesn’t want to make himself any more aware of his body after being fucked past hypersensitivity. He remains motionless as Bane cleans himself up, puts his clothing to rights. By the time Bane’s done, his breathing has evened out to something more like its usual steady rasp. There are shuffling, rustling noises. Bane presses something into his hand then moves away.

They don’t say anything to one another.

John waits until he’s certain Bane’s gone then looks at what’s in his hand: a scrap of paper with an address located in the Narrows.

 

\---

 

The first time it happened, it wasn’t because John had planned it. That’s all on _Bane_ , and John was just trying to do the best he could with the limited options he had.

He tells himself that when Bane appears a week later with new information – about a thief who breaks into homes and leaves a trail of stolen goods and broken bodies behind – and holds it above John’s head with the same deal. He tells himself that the third time it happens too. But for every time after that—

John’s got no excuse.

 


	2. Third, and Fourth through to Eighth

Right after the third time – the final time John tells himself that this is all Bane’s doing – Bane gives John another slip of paper, dropping it onto his lap.

John’s still on his knees, panting and loose-jawed from having Bane’s cock crammed into his mouth, playing chicken with his gag reflex, for what felt like an age. Each inward thrust had taken John just to the verge of choking; each time, he’d felt a hard stab of panic, and _God_ , he’d hated it and he hadn’t. Hated it because Bane clearly got off on John almost choking, eyes wide and glassy as he struggled to accommodate Bane’s length, and John hadn’t wanted to give the bastard any satisfaction; hadn’t hated it because, with each thrust, the panic was chased by a staggering gut punch of _want_.

Bane hadn’t even leveraged any information for his messed up choice game this time. He’d simply appeared – like a spectre, or a fucking _nightmare_ – while John was making his way across a brownstone rooftop; grabbed John, pinning him easily against the chimney before stripping John down, jerking him off with strokes so ruthless that John’s orgasm had rendered him practically insensate.

Numb from shock and residual arousal, when Bane had pushed down on John’s shoulders with intent, John had gone to his knees without a word.

 _You’re a sick, sick person, John Blake,_ he thinks now. To avoid looking at Bane, he looks down at the paper. Stares until the words finally resolve themselves in his brain as another address; an apartment this time, but still located in the Narrows.

John doesn’t understand.

His lips tingle, rubbed raw from Bane’s rough, selfish thrusts, and his tongue feels clumsy, sticky-bitter from Bane’s come. But John tries to speak anyway. “What— what’s this for?” He glances up uncertainly.

Bane looms over him, breaths coming out in long, harsh rasps. He’s clearly furious – whether at John, himself, or something else entirely, John has no idea. And when Bane finally bothers to look at John, his eyes are biting cold. Rather than answering, he sneers, “Did you enjoy yourself, John?” His voice drops into a lower register on John’s name.

John’s jaw clicks shut so fast he bites his tongue, and the pain is almost as sharp as the humiliation. But hearing Bane say his name in that low voice sends a spark of _something_ skittering down John’s spine; makes his back snap straight and his breaths come shorter _(Christ, there’s something wrong in his head)_. John glares mutely at Bane, but reserves all the fury for himself.

Bane’s cold stare slides into self-satisfaction. He says, “You finish your patrols at four in the morning.”

 _What, are you stalking me now?_ John almost says, but stops himself. Of course Bane’s fucking stalking him, how else would he manage to keep finding John like this? Instead, he just waits, gazing up at Bane. He knows what this would look like to an outside observer; like he’s worshipping at Bane’s feet, like he’s begging. But instead of feeling more humiliated _(he_ should _feel more humiliated, shouldn’t he?)_ , he just feels wired, strung up on some bizarre tension he can’t name.

Bane brushes his thumb over John’s mouth, hard and careless, like he’s assessing merchandise he doesn’t care for, before saying, “Saturday morning. An hour after you are finished patrolling, you will go to that address. You will keep the uniform on.” It’s less like a command and more like a statement of fact.

And though part of John’s mind is raging, saying, _goddamn it, argue back, tell him_ no, _tell him you’ll take that address to Gordon if he doesn’t leave you alone, what are you doing—_ John finds himself nodding obediently.

 

\---

 

The fourth time they fuck–

_(and John can say that, can say they’re fucking, without flinching now; he’d rolled the phrase over and over on his tongue, in private, alone in bed as he fucked his own hand, until it lost all power to make him cringe)_

–Bane opens the door and yanks John through the doorway the second he knocks.

Bane doesn’t say anything. John barely has time to take in the details of the small apartment – gets only the impression of dusty, barren space – before Bane is manhandling him across the floor, over to a window. He moves behind John, grabs his wrists, pinning them behind John’s back in one big hand, and it’s only then that John’s body kicks into gear.

John bucks and twists in Bane’s grip; he throws his head back, intending to head butt Bane except, of course, Bane’s taller than he is. The back of John’s head thumps harmlessly against Bane’s chest, and Bane laughs derisively. He shunts John forward, wrists still captured, and crowds him against the window frame. John’s cheek is shoved against the window and he gasps at the sudden cold; his breaths condense into white vapour on glass before fading away. There’s no heating in the apartment.

“There will be none of that,” Bane says, all the threat in his voice tucked away ( _for now,_ John thinks). “You came here of your own free will, did you not?”

 _Oh, fuck you,_ John thinks, but doesn’t say. He doesn’t want his face smashed through the window. Settles for snapping, “You would’ve just stalked me and did what you wanted anyway, if I hadn’t come.”

Bane doesn’t bother denying it. But he does point out, with certainty and contempt, “What I did, you enjoyed. What I did, you _wanted_.”

He waits, but John doesn’t deny it either; Bane’s voice has dropped into that low rumble and John goes _hard_ , so fast it almost hurts. He wants to grind back against Bane, against the answering hardness he knows will be there, make Bane lose his head enough that he’ll just _stop talking_ and bend John over, fuck him raw. The only thing stopping John is pride; he doesn’t even feel ashamed.

He’s more ashamed over the fact he _isn’t_ ashamed, and that’s just such a messed up thought that it makes him squirm. Bane lets him, for a moment, before he tugs sharply on John’s wrists, hard enough to pull John’s arms taut. Barest edge of pain in his shoulders and John arches into the ache.

“Be still, and answer my question,” Bane says, “Did you or did you not come here of your own free will?” He slides his free hand down to cup John’s dick through his pants, like he had the first night. Starts rubbing in light circles.

“Yes,” John says, his mouth going dry. “I did.”

“Why?”

John can’t believe this. “Isn’t it obvious?” he chokes out, hips stuttering forward into Bane’s hand. Bane tuts and tugs on John’s arms again, _hard_ this time, and the ache turns into hard pain. John’s breaths come in gasps but his cock just grows harder as Bane keeps stroking. _Be still,_ Bane had told him. Okay. John can do that. But his legs and back go tense from the effort, and John trembles.

“Tell me why, John,” Bane says, and _there’s_ the dangerous warning tone.

Tight, aching arousal snakes through John’s limbs as he responds, unthinking: “Because I wanted to. Because I want this.”

Bane laughs then, nasty and low. John goes hot with reflexive anger but Bane’s talking again, and the knife edge of threat in his voice turning John shaky with need. “You want this,” Bane repeats. John can barely concentrate, he just wants Bane to touch him properly; he’ll _beg_ if he has to—

“Let us be clear about what _this_ entails,” Bane continues, unforgiving. “You want to be restrained. You want to be forced down. You want to be pushed so far outside of yourself that you don’t have to _think_ anymore. Is that right?”

 _Yes,_ John thinks. _Yes, yes—_ “Yes,” he breathes, and closes his eyes.

Bane’s snarl is triumphant, and he jerks John back just far enough that he can strip the bottom half of John’s suit off. He lets go of John’s wrists but growls out immediately, “Hands on the window frame.”

John’s hands hit the window frame so fast that his palms sting even through the gloves.

He hears the now familiar sound of buckles being unclipped and a lube packet being torn open, and then Bane’s slick-wet fingers are at John’s ass. Bane screws them in without a word, and John immediately rises up onto his toes so he can better rock himself against Bane’s fingers. Bane’s not even touching his dick now but it’s still _so good_. He groans, long and loud. He doesn’t give a shit if anyone hears, he wants this; he’s getting what he wants—

John’s head drops down and he stares without really seeing anything, too focused on sensation. Stares blankly at the blue emblem running across his chest until the thought, which has been struggling to make its way through the haze, finally emerges: he’s still wearing the top half of his costume and Bane’s got him _up against a fucking window._

John’s whole body seizes up – he clenches tightly around Bane’s fingers – and he jerks away, back into Bane, who only laughs and steps forward, pushing John up against the window again.

 _Fuck—_ Bane had known where he was positioning John, Bane had _planned_ on it. John hadn’t felt ashamed of wanting Bane, so Bane had coaxed him into admitting it, then found a _different_ way to degrade him.

Rage and sick humiliation rises in John’s throat, eclipsing even the lust; he bares his teeth as he twists to glare at Bane.

Bane glares back. “You are angry now, John? _Good._ ”

He shoves John’s head back around, crooks his fingers in John’s ass, hits the spot that makes John’s vision go white, and now the pleasure’s warring with fury. Pleasure wins out and John pants. _Fucking hell_ , fuck—

Still, he tries to squirm away from the window because what if someone _sees_? It’s still early, the sun’s barely up, but people could still be walking around. Night shift workers returning home, morning shift workers leaving home, insane early morning joggers— any of them could glance up and see John – see _Nightwing_ , rather – pressed up against a window, clearly getting fucked.

“Are you ashamed, John? Embarrassed? Do you wish to hide yourself?”

 _Bane’s such a fucking asshole—_ “ _Yes,_ ” John spits. He wants to punch Bane in the throat so he’ll shut up. He wants to get down on his knees and suck until Bane can’t do anything but groan.

“That is all you needed to say,” Bane says lightly, like they’re only having a mild disagreement. He reaches up past John, and pulls the window shade down just enough that it hides John’s face, although the emblem would still be visible to anyone who looked up at the apartment window. John’s cheeks burn. Fury, embarrassment, arousal— he can’t even tell which one is winning anymore.

Bane pulls his fingers out and he’s not gentle when he replaces them with his cock. But John’s gotten used to it; he's more than gotten used to it, he _likes_ it. Likes the burn, likes the shiver of pain, and he pushes himself back and down onto Bane’s cock to get more of it. Likes the pain at his hips where Bane grips him, already digging bruises into them as he starts fucking into John.

John tries to cling to the anger, but it gets harder the longer Bane keeps moving in him. He’s supposed to be Gotham’s protector, he tells himself, in a last ditch effort. He should be capturing Bane, not fucking himself down on his dick, never mind doing it in a location where anyone could just look up and see and— oh God, it’s bad-wrong-dirty- _hot_ —

Bane’s got a steady rhythm going now and John can’t think anymore. It’s exactly what he wanted and John lets his head drop again and moans, “ _Bane—_ ” He’s still gripping the window frame because that’s what Bane had told him to do, but Bane’s not touching his cock, and John _needs_ him to, knows he’ll come in just one or two strokes, if he’d just—

Bane ignores the unspoken plea, just thrusts harder, and John can feel the strength behind each thrust down to his bones. He’s never had this before. Ever. John’s fucked plenty of people – men and women who’ve turned him on just as much as Bane – but he’s never fucked like this, like he’s yielding to some raw force of nature; forced out of thinking, just like Bane predicted.

John’s dick is red, hard, leaking almost continuously now. “Please,” he gasps out, “Please can I just—”

“No,” Bane says, and speeds up until the pace is near punishing.

John's breaths come out in a series of staccato gasps and groans. Each stroke strikes his prostate, a direct current to his cock, buzzing along his nerves and the pleasure ratchets higher and higher and _fuck_ — John’s throat goes tight, and his next moan is thin, drawn out, as his orgasm punches through him, his dick completely untouched. His come spatters against the window, hits the floor, and John has to dig his fingers into the window frame as his knees buckle.

Bane hoists him up by his hips, fucks him past his orgasm, makes John ride the threshold between good and _too much_. John hangs on, spreads his feet wider to better brace himself, twists to meet Bane’s thrusts as best as he can, though his sense of co-ordination is completely wrecked.

Bane’s movements become irregular, frantic and John gasps out, “ _Bane,_ ” voice thready because he’s over the edge now; Bane keeps doing this, every single time, and John _can’t take it_ —

Bane groans, long and low, and his fingers tighten painfully as he comes. He knocks John against the glass with each hard thrust, before going still. Bane leans up against John’s back, his forehead resting against the crook of John’s shoulder, completely engulfing him. Neither of them talks as their breathing slows.

A few minutes pass and Bane still hasn’t moved. It’s something resembling intimacy and that just makes John feel— awkward. He shifts a little under Bane’s bulk – the man is _heavy_ – and says, “Bane.” His voice is scratchy, still sex rough.

But that’s still enough to bring Bane back to himself. He pulls abruptly out of John, moves away so suddenly that the chill air hits John’s exposed skin like a slap. When John turns around, Bane is readjusting his pants, walking around the apartment like John’s not even there. Well, screw Bane then ( _you just did_ , part of him says). John does his best to ignore Bane as well; slowly pulls his pants back on, making sure the light armour is properly placed. The lube is clammy on his thighs and between his ass cheeks, makes the uniform uncomfortable, but John dismisses it in favour of feigning nonchalance.

And then suddenly Bane is saying: “Next Saturday. You will come here again, at the same time. Wear the uniform.” He’s staring at a point past John’s head.

John’s mouth thins, but he nods.

Still not looking at John, Bane turns and walks into the bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him.

 

\---

 

Over the fifth, sixth, seventh and eighth times they fuck, the rules emerge. They emerge slowly because Bane and John don’t talk beyond sniping or moaned out half-sentences.

If Bane’s fucking John, he always does it from behind. If John’s blowing Bane or Bane’s finger fucking John, they don’t make eye contact, unless Bane says otherwise. If Bane asks John a question, he’d better answer or accept getting slapped for his silence. If John wants something, he has to beg for it out loud.

And John must always be dressed as Nightwing.

After the eighth time, Bane doesn’t need to tell John to come to the apartment the following week. John just goes, and they both know Bane will be waiting for him when he does.

 


	3. Signal to Noise

The eleventh— or maybe it’s the twelfth time— or maybe it’s even further along than that, John’s lost count, but never mind. Whatever time it happens to be, the _point_ is this: the first person to break the rules isn’t John.

John just thinks that’s important to note.

They’re in the bedroom, and that’s already a change, although not actually that much of one, since Bane still has John standing up, even though there’s a bed _right fucking there_ , because Bane’s a psychotic asshole. A psychotic asshole that has John trembling, as he twists his fingers in John’s ass and simultaneously fists John’s cock with deft, mind numbing strokes, and John’s in serious danger of falling over because Bane’s making him stand up of his own volition, no support other than his own two legs and Bane’s hands on his body.

If John’s knees buckle – and they have, twice – Bane pauses. If John leans against him, Bane takes his hands away entirely and _fuck_ that’s the last thing John wants right now. So he stands with his legs spread wide, knees locked, thighs and calves close to cramping from the effort. Tight coil of arousal that’s edging toward pain now because they’ve been doing this for _so long_.

When John comes, it hits him by surprise and all at once, robbing him of all his breath. He stumbles backward into Bane, leans against his chest. Bane lets him. But John only gets five seconds to try and restart his brain, before Bane presses his cold mask against John’s neck and murmurs: “Gordon would be proud of you in this moment, I am sure.”

Then he shoves John aside to walk to the bed, climbs onto it, reclining with his hands behind his head. He looks relaxed, save for the intent, mocking look in his eyes as he watches for John’s reaction.

Bane still takes little jabs at John like that. But John’s weathering them better. He still gets struck with a hot blaze of anger, but he’s learning to breathe through it. He meets Bane’s scornful look with a cool stare of his own, and that seems to piss Bane off.

Maybe that’s what possesses him to say: “Crane has been making inroads in disseminating a new drug. I am told the drug induces euphoria before the user inevitably succumbs to Crane’s nasty surprise. And I have also heard some consider the fear to be worth it, for the euphoria beforehand. Crane is going to have repeat customers.”

John’s first thought is: _Crane’s selling again, really? They’ve let him out_ already _?_ His second is: _Repeat customers. Fuck._

He grits his teeth. Crane’s a sociopath, through and through. He’d ruled the kangaroo court during the occupation; Gotham General and Arkham Asylum have _permanent residents_ due to Crane. And Father Reilly’s told John about some of the home’s newest arrivals – children left orphaned because their parents had taken Crane’s drugs once (until now, Crane’s customers could _only_ take his drugs once), or were victims of people who’d taken them. It’s only been five months since Crane was last put in Arkham, so _what the fuck—_

The injustice of it fills John with fury.

He gives Bane a hard, mistrustful look, but Bane has no reason to lie, not about Crane. It might even be in his best interests to prevent Crane from getting a foothold in Gotham’s drug empire, because junkies always end up squatting in the Narrows. Dealers go where their market goes. And more dealers and junkies in the Narrows mean more cops; it’d be bad news for Bane.

“All right,” John says shortly. “Do you have anything concrete for me to work off?” It’s a stupid thing to say. He realises it the second it slips out of his mouth. That may be how John works with Gordon, but it’s definitely not how Bane operates.

Bane sneers. “You have received enough information for free,” he says, and he places his hand – seemingly absently – on the buckle of his belt. “Any other information you wish for, you must earn.” Then his voice hardens, takes on that air of command that never fails to work its way beneath John’s skin. “Keep your eyes on the ground, and come here.”

Skin prickling from anger and arousal, John looks down, and walks to the bed.

 

\---

 

John finds Crane after only a week. Crane’s arrogant, careless; _insane_ — he doesn’t cover his tracks when he’s his own boss, has always relied on mobsters and gangsters to do that for him. And John wears a gas mask when he confronts Crane, because he knows Crane will resort to spraying him with fear toxin to get away – John’s not an idiot, for all he knows he can be reckless.

Crane’s easy to take down the second he realises the toxin’s not going to work.

But John doesn’t stop with Crane. _This is the last time,_ John thinks. The _last fucking time_ that Crane gets to do this. The DA won’t be able to make the charges stick, Crane’s insanity plea is too easily believable, but John can still do something.

He won’t kill – he _can’t_ kill – but he _can_ reach all the way down, raze Crane’s operation to the ground and salt the earth afterwards.

He repeats it to himself like a mantra. It feels like his bones have been hollowed out, and re-filled with nothing but grim determination. Every night, for the next week and a half, he tracks down Crane’s crew; his runners, his dealers, his chemical suppliers, and beats them into submission. He thinks he may have gone a bit too far with some of them, but he’s had _enough_ of Crane.

(When he visits Bane that week, it’s a frenzied blur – Bane forces him down onto hands and knees, fucking into him with a minimum of preparation, but John just shoves himself back onto Bane’s savagely, almost to the point of pain, because _he can’t stop thinking_. He’s been thinking tactics, logistics, and positioning for days because he needs to see this plan through, and he _will_. But he also just wants to stop for a while – _just a little while_ – and Bane’s there, and he can do that for John, can make him stop thinking, if only for a few hours—)

John’s relentless hunting does the job; the remaining cartels are scared shitless. They won’t do business with Crane again, if (or, more likely, _when_ ) he gets out.

But John isn’t done. He waits until the forensics crews are gone – until they’ve gathered all the evidence they can from Crane’s drug labs dotted throughout the city – because he still respects police work, even if he can no longer work within the system.

And then he pays a visit to Lucius Fox.

Whether it’s by accident or unconscious design, John honestly doesn’t know. But he ends up blowing the last of Crane’s emptied drug labs sky high only hours before he’s scheduled to meet with Bane.

 


	4. Signal Distortion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day, readers! <3

John shows up at the apartment still reeking of nitroglycerine and smoke.

Bane leaves the apartment door unlocked for him now. When John lets himself in, he sees Bane sitting on a metal stool at the kitchen table, a copy of the _Gotham Gazette_ open on its surface. It looks to be yesterday’s edition. Bane has it open to a full colour, double page spread. It’s a feature article on the explosions that have been occurring throughout week, with Vicki Vale’s investigation into Nightwing’s possible involvement. An editorial segment runs along the bottom, detailing the obligatory perspectives of the pro- and anti-vigilante factions.

Bane glances at John, then at the newspaper, then back at John again. His gaze lingers, taking in John’s appearance.

John knows he looks like shit. He’s covered in sweat, soot and dirt, and his hair is singed because he’d stood around to watch the last drug lab go up in flames before making an anonymous call to the fire department. At least Bane can’t see the bruises – and he won’t see them, since he always makes John keep the top half of the Nightwing uniform on.

Bane takes a single hissing breath – made incredibly loud by the silence – and says slowly, “I have been reading of your exploits. Your efforts are to be commended. Well done.” His tone is noncommittal rather than mocking, but John still says nothing. After a beat, Bane reaches a hand out to John. Actually _reaches out_ , rather than giving an order, or getting up and grabbing John.

Exhausted to his bones, John goes to him.

He stands docilely between Bane’s enormous spread thighs, waiting. But Bane doesn’t shove John down to his knees. He doesn’t do anything, actually, other than stare at John’s body. John has his eyes trained on the ground, like he’s learned to do, but he can still feel Bane’s stare like a physical touch. It lingers on John’s chest – on the emblem.

“If we had found you first,” Bane says, his eyes still on the blue crest, “what you could have become— what you could have been moulded into—” he takes a breath like he’s going to say something else, but then he lets his voice trail off, just like he had that first night in the alley.

John should wonder at that, puzzle over Bane’s meaning— but he doesn’t. Normally he would, but not today. He’s tired. He so _tired_ , and it goes beyond physical exhaustion. The frenetic madness that had driven him as he’d decimated Crane’s drug ring has left him.

John doesn’t want to talk. He doesn’t want to _think_.

Bane seems to sense that. He moves, finally, raising a hand to John’s jaw and cupping it, tipping John’s face up. John doesn’t resist, but keeps his eyes cast down. Bane makes an approving noise at that. And then he says, “Look at me.”

There’s no darkness, no threat in Bane’s voice, yet John still complies. He raises his eyes to meet Bane’s. John blinks.

Bane’s eyes are lovely, he thinks. It’s an unexpected, bizarre thought, but they are; blue-grey, framed by a long sweep of dark blond lashes.  John can see clearly the fierce intelligence in those eyes. And desire. There’s desire there, too.

But he can’t read anything beyond that, can’t decipher the rest of what he sees. The look in Bane’s eyes is nothing like affection – nothing as simple or soft as that – but it’s the first time Bane’s looked at John with something that isn’t contempt, or anger, or spite.

It looks like something akin to respect.

John doesn’t know what to make of that. And he isn’t particularly inclined toward thinking right now. So he focuses instead on the lust, because that’s always present in Bane’s eyes, no matter how else Bane looks at him. John knows that desire – it’s familiar. He can trust it, even if he can’t trust Bane. It’s something he can ground himself in as he slips out of his head and sinks into his body.

The thought makes John’s heartbeat speed up. His breaths start coming in shorter, faster.

Bane brushes his thumb against John’s mouth. Still looking straight at Bane, John opens his mouth; runs his tongue along the pad of Bane’s thumb, tasting salt and bitter ink from the newspaper, before taking the thumb into his mouth, sucking wetly.

 _That_ pulls a reaction out of Bane instantly. He’s off the stool, crowding John, forcing him to step backward. John yields his ground immediately, still applying deep, sucking pressure to the thumb in his mouth. And he’s still staring, although he has to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact; he’s not out of bounds for doing it – Bane hasn’t told him to look down. And Bane doesn’t. He maintains the gaze, in fact, as he keeps backing John up. Keeps going until the back of John’s calves hit the couch. There isn’t really much furniture in the apartment – just the bed, the kitchen table and its two stools, and this couch. Bane’s fucked John on all of it, and against most of the walls too.

“Turn around,” Bane says, his voice still carefully neutral. “Kneel on the couch. Put your hands on the back, and then look down.”

His mind already starting to drift and his skin going hot, John releases Bane's thumb from his lips with a wet _pop_ , and obeys.

Once he has John in position, Bane wastes no time pushing John’s pants down, just enough to expose his cock, already flushed dark red at the head, shiny with pre-come and still leaking more. Bane walks away then, but John keeps his eyes down. Bane doesn’t keep him waiting long; John hears the distinct click of the lube bottle being opened, and Bane’s hands are on him again, thank _fuck_ —

The muscles in John’s shoulders uncoil. He lets out a slightly broken, relieved noise. Thought-blank and wanting, he spreads his legs as far as they can go – which isn’t far at all, trapped as they are by his pants around his thighs. But it’s enough room for Bane to quickly screw his fingers into John’s ass – two of them, right away. John moans shamelessly at the burn, hips jerking back to get that calloused roughness deeper—

“Be still,” Bane hisses into his ear and John’s body locks up as his eyes go wide. God. _God yes_ , he thinks. He’s developing the most fucking inappropriate reaction to that command – has a brief mental image of being in combat with Bane, of freezing and going hard when Bane tosses out the order. Almost laughs, but then Bane adds a third finger, and the laugh turns into another moan instead.

Bane settles into a slow, steadily mind-rending pace. John has to suck in lungful after lungful of air at each tingling burst of pleasure, even when he starts feeling lightheaded. Not that it matters – he can feel his brain shorting out anyway as Bane works him open, messy and wet.

But Bane isn’t stroking directly over John’s prostate like he usually does, rubbing mercilessly as John twists and writhes, simultaneously trying to get Bane’s fingers in further and trying to get away. Instead, Bane has his fingers crooked so that each stroke only lightly skims John’s prostate – enough of a tease to make John’s noises go frantic, but not enough for satisfaction.

Bane keeps it up until John’s desperate enough to start shoving himself back again, one hand twitching off the back of the couch to reach for his cock, even though he _knows_ —

“What did I say, John?” Bane rumbles, and John jerks to a stop so suddenly that his dick slaps wetly against his stomach. The smile in Bane’s voice is almost tangible. “Better, John. Good.”

That short bit of praise goes straight to John’s head while sending a hot rush of _want_ everywhere else. It does something for John that even Bane’s praise over his strike against Crane’s gang didn’t do. A low noise slips out of John’s throat. The desire to obey is overwhelming, drugging; it slips into his veins and charges his blood. John wants to hear Bane praise him again in that low voice, he _does_. He wants that. He wants to be good for Bane.

John digs his fingers into the fabric of the couch. Bane hums in approval when he sees it – instantly rewards John by reaching around to grip him in one big fist, still fucking John with the fingers of his other hand in that skin-sensitising, increasingly maddening rhythm.

John grits his teeth at the first stroke, whimpers on the second. Half-swallows the whimper down, but it still sounds pathetically grateful. John doesn’t care. All that matters is that _Bane_ enjoys the sound – and it’s clear he does. He presses in close to John’s side, grinds himself openly against John’s thigh. So John forces his jaw open, lets the noises tumble out one after the other, an audible, _filthy_ fucking record of how much John likes what Bane’s doing to him.

His arousal spirals higher, sharpens—

And Bane says, right at his ear: “This time, you will not come until I do.” The cold of his mask is a freezing brand against the skin of John’s neck.

John’s eyes go wide and he trembles. _What?_ He pants. He— Bane’s been working him up this entire time and John’s on the brink of orgasming. Bane hasn’t even undone his _belt_ yet.

“I can’t,” John pants out eventually, “I want to, but— I _can’t_ , I—” _I want to be good, but I can’t do that,_ he tries to say, but the effort of holding back his orgasm stoppers his voice in throat.

“You can,” Bane says, voice resolute.

“I can— I can suck you,” John manages to rasps out. Anything— he wants to give Bane what he’d commanded, he does, but for that to happen, he needs to do _something_ to get Bane’s hands off of him, out of him, _he’s going to come_ —

Bane laughs, a hollow sound through the mask. There’s no affection to it, but no mockery either. “No,” he says. But he pulls his fingers out, takes his hand off John’s cock. John whines, both willing and unwilling to be reined back in from the edge.

“Turn around,” Bane says; there's no doubt in his voice over whether John’s going to listen. And John does. He flips around, obedient but awkward, still restrained by his uniform. It’s harder to keep his balance this way – his feet press against the back of the couch and threaten to push his knees off the edge. The muscles in John’s legs tremble. For more than one reason.

Bane watches John’s faltering attempts to find his balance for a few moments. Then, as John tries to tuck his feet into the gap between couch cushion and back, seeking even the smallest amount of purchase, Bane seems to come to a decision. He darts forward, lightning quick; wraps enormous hands around the back of John’s thighs and _yanks_.

John yelps as his legs are pulled out from under him. He’s sent crashing back onto the couch, arms thrown out futilely for balance. The couch rocks with the impact, and John stares up at Bane, his legs still in Bane’s grip, half-sticking up in the air ridiculously. Bane tugs John’s boots and pants off roughly, breaths coming a little louder and faster through the mask now. The sound makes John’s dick throb – he’s been pulled back from the edge of orgasm, but just barely. He’s still hard, _painfully_ hard, and pre-come wells out the tip of his cock, dripping messily back onto his stomach.

John distantly hears the rip of foil over the harsh sound of his own breathing, and then Bane’s hands are on his thighs. He confidently wrenches John’s legs open. Presses his cock against John’s hole and _pushes_. John yields to him, panting. He’s crowded in, practically folded in half, and there’s nowhere to go. Bane’s weight pins him down and Bane’s not holding back at all, forcing John to take all of Bane’s bulk against his thighs – there’s no escaping this, and John _loves_ it.

Bane starts fucking him with deep, bone-jarring thrusts; John has to clench his teeth, lest each thrust make his teeth clack together. The angle Bane has him at means Bane slides in deep with each stroke; it’s almost _too_ deep, but John just groans. There’s no room for thought here, just pure body sensation, and John stares up at Bane, dazed. And Bane doesn’t tell him to lower his gaze, doesn't tell him to look away. Just hitches John’s legs higher, crowds in more, and Bane's returning stare is even darker.

They’re not doing anything remotely close to fucking this time – John would have to be able to _reciprocate_ for that to occur. No; this time, John’s undeniably _getting fucked_. The burn extends from the muscles in the back of John’s thighs all the way to his calves; it’s awful; it’s _amazing_. Tingling pain starbursts intermittently along his nerves, and John moans, loud and shameless, trying to focus on the pain to stave off orgasm for a little while longer.

But eventually, it’s too much— it’s too _good_ , and John whines, high in his throat, unable to talk but trying to warn Bane regardless. The pleasure hits a crest and—

—Bane reaches down, grips the base of John’s dick with one big fist, and _squeezes_.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” John gasps out, voice ruined, as his orgasm is abruptly throttled. Bane makes a pleased noise as he rolls his hips again; John’s still on the knife’s edge and he almost sobs as Bane’s next stroke in threatens to push him over.

“Not until I do, John,” Bane reminds him, still squeezing the base of John’s cock while thrusting steadily. John throws an arm over his eyes, nodding frantically. Yes, _yes_ — whatever Bane says, whatever he wants, just as long as he keeps doing that, just as long as he keeps John from thinking—

John hits another peak and there’s another blessed, awful tight squeeze around the base of his cock. John makes a punched-out noise. Chokes on a groan as Bane starts fucking into him again. John starts to drift, nerves continuously alight with sparking pleasure, hovering seemingly endlessly on the precipice of orgasm. Almost tumbles over the edge another two times, but Bane’s methodical, relentless; squeezing _just_ as John hits his peak. He keeps John riding the edge longer than he ever has – longer than John thought was _possible_ – thrusting into John throughout, until finally, _finally_ Bane’s rhythm changes.

Short, hard thrusts intermix with his smooth strokes, and Bane groans, grinding hard on each inward thrust, and John _knows_ what that means. John sobs— _begs_ , loud and unashamed, “Please, please, can I— I can’t—I need to— _please_ ,” and just above the sound of his own chanting he hears Bane say, “ _Yes,_ ” and John comes, gasping and shouting, as the world hazes out into white.

 

\---

 

When John wakes, it takes him a few seconds to properly come back to himself. His body feels amazing, lit up with the edge of pain in the best way. He’s fucked-out sore, thighs bruised and the muscles in his legs burning from being stretched taut for so long.

After another moment, he realises he’s face down on the couch, legs stretched out along the length of it. His stomach and legs aren’t sticky with come or sweat – they feel deliciously cool, in fact, as if— as if they’ve been _wiped down_.

Uncertain and stunned, John’s just about to push himself to his hands and knees, rise up from the couch, when Bane’s hand pushes him back down. John freezes. He tilts his head slightly and sees Bane sitting on the arm of the couch, by John’s head. He meets Bane’s eyes, and the look in those grey eyes is inscrutable.

Slowly, Bane reaches out and places a hand at the nape of John’s neck – starts deliberately stroking the short buzzed hairs there, running his thumb against the grain before smoothing the hairs back down; repeats the motion again. It’s— nice. John lets his head drop back down, wordlessly giving Bane easier access.

Face down, John blinks at the cushions. This— this isn’t how they do things. It’s not. But John doesn’t want to start a fight. He’d gotten what he wanted— what he needed. His head feels clearer now, even compared with the usual post-orgasm mind blank he always experiences after Bane fucks him. The lingering cobwebs of rage and desperation have been swept away.

John won’t break this fragile peace if this is what Bane wants.

He closes his eyes, and the repetitive sweep of Bane’s thumb against the nape of his neck lulls John back into sleep.

 

\---

 

Bane may have been the first to break the rules, but – over the following weeks – John’s the one who keeps breaking them.

He asks Bane small questions about the open cases Gordon has given him. Comments on potential suspicious individuals he can see from the window of Bane’s apartment. Bane tolerates his comments, even responds to John’s requests for information sometimes, albeit always in short sentences.

But, inevitably, he’ll decide at some point that John’s gotten enough information for free, and will hold a hand out for John to come to him. Order John to jerk him off with his gloves still on, or suck him, or bend over for him. It’s almost as if Bane feels the need to ensure he makes up for any good behaviour he exhibits toward John by fucking John through the mattress (or the wall, or the floor, or the kitchen table).

John still thinks he’s getting the better end of the deal.

He thinks this may be the longest relationship he’s ever had in his life. And that thought is so screwed up, on so many levels – the fact he’s even considering what he and Bane do together as constituting a ‘relationship’ not being the least of them – that John is always appalled with himself when he thinks it.

And then Bane will say something, or glance at John with that not-quite-callous-but-not-kind-either expression, and John, warmed and more than a little mesmerised, forgets why he’s appalled.


	5. Loss of Signal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy extremely belated birthday, Bubbles!
> 
> Beta'ed by the ever-lovely smugrobotics.
> 
> WARNING: References to child abuse.

"You're looking better," is what Gordon says when John shows up on the precinct rooftop.

John looks at him askance. "Better than what?"

"Better than you used to. Less... strained. I was starting to think I'd find you in ICU one day. Or in the morgue. Glad to see I was wrong, son."

John blinks. Something in him springs to life tenuously at being called 'son'. It only grows stronger at the casually fond tone of Gordon's voice. John lets himself bask in it for a few bright seconds before squashing it down.

He hasn't been called 'son' for more than a decade. He doesn't need to be _(shouldn’t want to be)_ called it now. He can't quite look at Gordon when he says, "I can look after myself."

"I wasn't saying you couldn't," Gordon says, moustache twitching, ignoring John's tone. "Just that it's good to see you looking better."

And John _really_ can’t look at Gordon then. Nor does he have anything to say. What can he say? _Thanks – being fucked weekly by Gotham’s public enemy number one does wonders for your stress levels, you should try it out sometime?_

Gordon saves him the trouble of coming up with a response by speaking again. “However,” he says slowly, brows lowered, “if you ever try something like what you did with Crane’s drug labs again, you and I are going to have to talk.”

John’s mouth tightens. “I had to send a message.”

“And what message was that, son? That you’ll blow them up if they work with Crane again?” Gordon shakes his head. “You really think you can do that? You really think you _should_ do that?”

“Whether I’d actually do it or not is beside the point. What matters is that they _believe_ I will.”

Gordon shakes his head again, but he doesn’t argue further. Instead, he hands over a manila folder, saying, “I’m not sure about giving this one to you. But it’s your call. Take a look at it then tell me straight if you think it hits too close to home. I’ve got detectives who can take it on, although maybe not straight away. And by God I wish I could say otherwise, but– you know how it is.”

John does know. The crime rate in Gotham is escalating; a natural reaction as the city tries to shuffle itself into some semblance of order again. And the men and women of the GPD are trying – _really_ trying – but they’re all only human at the end of the day.

 _So are you,_ part of him whispers. _So are you._

John ignores it.

He flips the folder open, slightly tense. Gordon’s words had had him conjuring up visions of gun-related violence, or dead parents and orphaned children. But the reality is worse. Much, much worse.

“Pedro Campos – he was a street kid,” Gordon is saying, eyeing John carefully. “No fixed address, and no living relatives as far as we can ascertain, but–”

John slaps the folder shut when he reaches the coroner’s report.

“I’ll take care of it,” he says curtly.

Gordon gives him a long look, and John will absolutely snap at him if he says something like _are you sure_ or _you don’t have to_ –

But after another beat, Gordon just nods.

 

–--

 

John alternates spending the next few days holed up in the cave, hunched over the computer, or lurking in the worst, filthiest parts of Gotham.

He chases down leads that are fainter than gunsmoke; grills informants who know nothing, or have information so vague it may as well be nothing. And throughout it all, hanging over him is the fact that there’s a boy who’s now _dead_ – a boy who’d died alone, and terrified, believing he’d be forgotten, and _John hadn’t been able to prevent it_.

He strikes upon something on the fourth day of his investigation – one of his informants spits out a rumour he’d heard about a former Arkham inmate offering his services as a hit man, but that’s all he knows, he swears to God, that’s _it–_

John lets him go.

It’s hardly solid, but it’s better than anything else John’s gotten, and he scents it ruthlessly like a bloodhound.

Days of research yields him Victor Zsasz, former Falcone hitman; sent to Arkham, but at large since Crane’s citywide toxin attack. John cross-references the details of the coroner’s report against reports on Zsasz’s past victims. They match to an unsettling, _disturbing_ degree.

But this newest murder clearly indicates that Zsasz isn’t just a hit man – he’s a _serial killer_. Twin hooks of fear and anger sink themselves into John’s skin. He starts pacing within the confines of the cave. He’s gotten as far as he can with research, but there’s nothing else he can do – not yet. It’s not night yet.

The restlessness coils around him like a living thing, wild and vicious, and there’s only one thing he knows that can calm it. But there’s still one more day before he can go see Bane.

When twilight falls – signalled by the multitudes of bats suddenly rousing and taking flight – John pulls on his uniform, and sets out into the night. He’ll find Zsasz, even if he has to beat his whereabouts out of every last lowlife in Gotham, and he’ll stop him, too.

One way or another.

 

\--–

 

The next night, John clatters down into the apartment building via the rooftop fire exit. He doesn’t bother to move discretely or quietly. There’s never anyone in the stairwell or building hallway when he arrives, and he’s not sure if that’s due to the earliness of the hour, or if Bane is somehow the building’s sole occupant… or if Bane _isn’t_ , and the other residents are just terrified.

(Even if they were, John knows it’s more than likely the people of the Narrows would still close ranks around Bane, leader of the occupation, harbinger of revolution. Because, no matter how false his pretenses, Bane had still given them more than they’d ever gotten from anyone in City Hall.)

He walks down the hallway, rolling his shoulders as he goes. Beneath his uniform, his skin is damp from exertion – Lucius’ sweat wicking fabric is working double time, and still it’s not enough – and his nerves are buzzing.

He’s been hunting down former members of Falcone’s mob – long since dispersed into other mob families, or other criminal pursuits – and pulling information on Zsasz through intimidation, bribery, and plain old fashioned violence. He’s closing in on Zsasz, but he can only move so quickly. If he goes any faster, or makes his investigation any more obvious, he’ll spook him into running.

The waiting makes him restless, and the leftover adrenaline surging through him makes his body run hot. He needs to stop thinking about– _everything_ for a while. But John knows how to work that adrenaline out now, knows how to stopper those thoughts. He knows _who_ can do that for him, and he can barely contain the thrumming beneath his skin as he turns the door handle and steps inside.

He spots Bane almost immediately, sitting on the couch and watching him from across the room. The single-minded intensity of his gaze makes John falter.

But then the adrenaline comes coursing back and, without breaking eye contact, John kicks the door shut. The _clack_ of the bolt sliding into the strike plate gets his heart rate spiking upward. It’s conditioning, John knows – his body associating the sound of the door locking with submission, with body-immolating pleasure.

But knowing doesn’t stop his dick from throbbing. Knowing doesn’t lessen his desire to drop to his knees.

John walks forward on suddenly shivery legs.

And this is another thing that’s been happening lately – Bane sits and waits for John to go to him now. Part of John – the forever bitter, suspicious part of him – thinks maybe Bane means for it to be a subtler degradation, meant to emphasise John’s submission. The rest of him doesn’t care. The rest of him doesn’t feel anything beyond the blind desire to _please_ , to give himself over to Bane, for the promise of temporary oblivion.

He keeps his eyes locked onto Bane’s as he approaches, because Bane no longer looks away these days, nor does he tell John to look down. That small part of him is still whispering urgently that this isn’t how they do things; that this is muddying things for no reason; that John needs to–

“Stop,” Bane orders, and John halts immediately, only a foot away. His breathing is already turning shallow.

He remains perfectly still as Bane rises slowly from the couch and reaches a hand out to John’s face. Bane runs calloused fingertips along John’s cheekbones, his jaw, along the bruises John knows are beginning to darken there. And then Bane’s fingers are sliding down, just beneath John’s jaw, where the mark from an impromptu chain garotte is making itself known in a livid line of pain.

Bane seems completely fascinated with the sight, running his thumb over the bruise again and again. His fingers are curled loosely at the side of John’s neck, and John has to suppress his shiver. He swallows, though, and his Adam’s apple pushes firmly against Bane’s thumb as he does. Bane’s eyes go dark and hooded. And John’s struck by a sudden thought.

“Did you– do you want to–” John can’t finish the sentence, shades of embarrassment and disbelief at himself for even _considering_ offering this making his voice fade away.

But he tilts his chin up – the first movement he’s made since Bane had told him to stop – and leans forward slightly, pushing his throat harder against Bane’s hand. Not an invitation, exactly, but John expressing a… willingness. If Bane did want to do that.

Bane’s pupils dilate so wide there’s only a thin ring of grey left, and John’s _sure_ Bane’s going to wrap his hand properly around his throat - maybe reach his other hand down to John’s cock at the same time. Adrenaline blends with John’s arousal in a heady, poisonous cocktail, and then–

“Beg for it,” Bane says quietly.

Startled, John almost rocks back on his heels – remembers just in time to not move. It’s an abrupt reminder of their unspoken rules, which– what? They’ve already broken a bunch of them, and Bane’s bringing _that_ one up? John opens his mouth to say as much, but Bane stops him by saying, “Plead for it, or do not. But I will not do it, unless you beg.”

Do it. _Say it._ John wills his lips to form the words, and his tongue to move. But he can’t. Frozen by– something. Fear? And still some mistrust, definitely. John trusts Bane to make him feel good, and do it in a way that no one else has ever been able to, but _God_ , what the hell had he been thinking, inviting Bane to _strangle_ him? Jesus.

Bane makes a noise and murmurs something under his breath – “ _Just so,_ ” is what John thinks he hears, but he can’t be sure – and then he steps back, lowering himself down onto the couch again. Bane spreads his thighs wide, the thick length of him straining obscenely against the material of his fatigues. John’s gaze is drawn helplessly downward, so he misses the opportunity to gauge Bane’s expression when Bane says:

“Turn around. Take off the uniform. Completely.”

For five whole seconds, John doesn’t move. He– had he heard that right? He looks up. Bane meets his gaze dead on, and – just like that very first time – John can’t read the expression in Bane’s eyes.

John opens his mouth, then shuts it with a snap. Why resist?

He turns around obediently; shucks off his gloves then kneels to unbuckle his boots. He doesn’t make a show of it because Bane’s never needed anything like that, and he’s already hard. But it still feels like John’s doing something more than just stripping off.

It feels like he’s pulling away another layer between them, and– they should be maintaining barriers, shouldn’t they? They should.

John doesn’t stop, though.

He strips his pants off next, and that’s normal, but when he reaches up to release the clasps that seal his uniform firm at his throat, his fingers are strangely clumsy.

He has to slow down, and Bane makes an impatient noise from behind him– but even that can’t make John move any faster. And when he finally gets them undone, he hesitates.

 _Come on, Blake,_ he thinks to himself. _You were going to let him_ strangle _you less than five minutes ago._

And what does that say about him, that he’s still more comfortable at the thought of Bane wrapping a hand around his throat than being completely naked in front of him?

John shakes his head. That’s not– he doesn’t come here, to Bane so he can keep thinking.

He steels himself then peels the uniform top up and over his head.

Drops it to the ground, and then he’s standing with his back to Bane; he feels completely exposed, and in more ways than one.

The sudden touch of Bane’s hand at the small of his back makes him jump. Bane makes another noise, a wordless command to stay still, and John has to lock his muscles to stop himself from jumping again as Bane runs that hand higher.

He’s tracing bruises and scars, John realises suddenly. Mapping out all the souvenirs of John’s battles against Gotham’s darker side. Bane’s fingers linger for a long time on his right shoulder blade, where John knows there are short, raised welts. Those hadn’t come from his vigilantism. They were where a belt buckle had bitten into his skin, over and over, more than a decade ago now.

Eventually, Bane takes his hands away from John’s back; grasps him firmly by the shoulders instead and pushes down. John goes to his knees soundlessly, but Bane keeps pushing and pulling at him until he’s arranged on hands and knees. So they’re fucking on the floor again, John thinks, resigned, as he listens to the now familiar sound of Bane’s pants being undone.

God, he hates fucking on the floor. The floorboards are hard on his knees, and freezing cold besides.

And then he startles even himself by saying, “You have a bed, you know. And a couch. It’s right behind you. You were sitting on it just a minute ago.” It’s the closest he’s ever come to making a joke with Bane.

Bane goes still behind him, and John tenses in anticipation of the slap that’s sure to come.

But Bane huffs out a small laugh instead.

What?

Surprised, John twists to look, but _that_ gets him a warning sound from Bane. He turns back quickly.

Bane brushes his fingers along John’s jaw and neck then, gentle and feather-light. John tenses from the effort of not turning his head. What the _hell_ is Bane playing at?

But whatever his intentions, Bane seems to abandon them after another beat. In a sudden, startling burst of movement, he’s hooking one huge arm around John’s chest, hauling him up. John yelps a little as he’s lifted off his feet entirely and pulled backward; he lands with an _oomph_ of breath.

In Bane’s lap.

Still facing forward, his back against Bane’s chest, but _he’s in Bane’s lap,_ with Bane’s dick nestled firmly between his ass cheeks. Startled, John wriggles. He stops himself quickly, not wanting to push his luck and get another warning – or a slap to the face. But instead of doing either, Bane just settles one enormous hand on John’s hip and starts to rock him against his cock, slow and deliberate.

Bane hasn’t taken his pants off completely, and the fabric is rough against the backs of John’s thighs. But he goes with the motion anyway – back and forth, over and over and over. It starts off uncomfortably dry at first, and every brush of Bane’s glans against his hole gets John flinching _(Bane wouldn’t_ actually _try to fuck him dry, would he? He–_ God, _John hopes he doesn’t)._

But, soon enough, the uncomfortable drag-pull becomes a slick-smooth slide of skin against skin. Each thrust of Bane’s cock between his ass cheeks sends a shock of arousal zinging across John’s nerves; the sound of Bane’s breath going harsh gets John’s own breaths speeding up in time.

John lets out a thready, pleading sound, because Bane’s done this to him before. Never with frotting, but he’s used John to get off plenty of times _–_ then left him hard and wanting afterwards, with the the express command to stay still.

Sometimes he leaves John standing, but, most often, he orders him to lay face down on the bed. John knows Bane gets off on listening to him, but he seems to gain extra enjoyment this way, every time John makes any kind of sound – a groan, or a gasp – as he struggles to stop himself from humping the mattress, waiting for Bane to get hard again and fuck him.

And John can’t get enough of it, usually; he craves being completely under Bane’s control. He loves being left untouched – pinned to the bed only by the weight of Bane’s command, his desire, and John’s own mindless need to please.

But John doesn’t want that right now. He wants more than that, because the adrenaline’s still charging his blood, his thoughts are crowding his brain, and John _wants to get fucked_.

“Please,” he gasps, “please. Fuck me, I want you to, please–”

Bane ignores him.

 _What the fuck?_ John thinks disbelievingly, even as his cock starts throbbing in earnest – gets slick and wet at the tip, starts to drip – because Bane doesn’t ignore his requests. He denies them, or delays them, but he’s never flat out _ignored_ them.

 _That’s not how this works,_ John wants to say. _You were just telling me to beg five minutes ago, you can’t put rules on me and then ignore them when you feel like it._ But when Bane’s free hand reaches around to cup and roll John’s balls, what comes out are half-gasped breaths instead.

Well fuck Bane then. If he’s not going to give John what he wants, John won’t give him what he wants either.

He grits his teeth, and it almost feels like he’s grinding them down to stubs from the effort of not making a sound. Managed to keep it up, right until Bane’s rhythm starts going a little wild. And John can’t stop the sound that rips out of him then, desperate and needy.

Bane stops abruptly. John pants loudly into the sudden stillness, eyes wide – waiting.

“What do you need, John?”

God, what sort of mind game is Bane playing now? “I– I want you to fuck me,” he says, confused and off-balance.

Bane gives a short, thoughtful hum. “Try again,” he says. “What do you need?” Slightest emphasis on the word _need_ this time, and– _what?_

 _I don’t_ need _you to fuck me,_ John almost says, but he’s pretty sure that would get him something harder than a slap. But saying otherwise is just– well, it just sounds fucking ridiculous. And it’s the truth; he doesn’t _need_ Bane to fuck him. He can stop doing this, stop coming to Bane, anytime he wants. He can.

...Right?

That frisson of doubt worms deeper when he asks himself: _what will you do then, when you need to stop thinking?_

What will he do when he needs to get rid of the tension and restlessness and anger that’s always building within him? John thinks over the other methods he used to use – drinking; running laps and working out mindlessly; fucking other people. They hadn’t worked. Only this–   _thing_ he’s been doing with Bane has worked, and–

Oh God.

He _does_ need this; needs _Bane_. Just how much more fucked up can he _get?_

But even so– he can’t bring himself to actually _say_ it. Humiliation is scalding him in a way that it hasn’t for _months_ now, and John’s next breath chokes in his throat.

And it’s almost as if Bane’s reading his thoughts, because he lets out a quiet chuckle. “On your feet, John,” he says, sounding incredibly amused.

John gets to his feet, still stunned.

He listens distantly to the sound of Bane putting a condom on and slicking his cock up. He still wants Bane, still wants – needs _(oh God)_ – to be fucked, but the shock dulls the sensation of Bane’s fingers pushing into him. John doesn’t care if his lack of reaction bothers Bane. He’s still reeling, and his thoughts – no longer on the investigation, but nevertheless _thoughts_ – are _still_ chasing themselves in circles as Bane works him open. John barely pays attention, until Bane pulls his fingers out.

Bane touches a hand to his hip lightly – too-lightly. But the sound of his voice is like steel when he says, “Come here.”

John’s thoughts stutter to a halt. He snaps out of his head, sinks deeper into the feel of his body as that now-familiar haze settles over him again; the one that can block out everything that isn’t Bane, or the feel of him against John, inside him–

Bane draws John back down into his lap, until the blunt head of his cock nudges against John’s entrance. John spreads his legs wider and bears down on him; doesn’t stop or slow down, even though he’s going too fast for comfort. Because it’s easier than thinking, the burn hurts less than thinking about what this all _means–_

John still gasps when Bane bottoms out suddenly.

Bane doesn’t give him time to adjust. Immediately begins manhandling him like he weighs nothing, until John’s legs are obscenely spread wide, feet flat against the floor; his hands are braced against the couch cushions, and John’s back – his _naked_ back – is pressed up against Bane’s chest. John’s eyes go wide and he tenses involuntarily.

They’ve never fucked like this. Never with John on top, and never pressed so closely together before.

But when John tries to lean forward, tries to get some space between them, Bane brings a hand up to his chest and stops him. He wraps his other hand around John’s cock, and then just _waits_.

“Take what you need then,” Bane says, and the words sound careless, but his tone is anything but. He sounds _hungry_ – just as hungry as John is, and that– John can handle that. He can deal with that. He can’t deal with– everything else, but he can deal with _that_.

He shifts his weight onto his hands; rises up from Bane’s cock then drops himself back down. He does it again and again, small, broken noises escaping him, because _yes, yes, yes– God, yes–_ he _needs_ this; there’s nothing else like it, and it feels _so_ good to get it.

Bane’s making small thrusting movements beneath him, but they’re nothing compared to the brutal, merciless pace he uses when he’s got John pinned down. John’s doing all the work this time – bracing himself with his hands, trying to get leverage with his feet; lifting himself up from Bane’s cock and then grinding back down like a whore.

It’s never been like this before, Bane just– _letting_ John take what he wants _(needs)_. John wonders at it, tries to figure out Bane’s motive– but then Bane’s cock drags over his prostate, rough and jagged-sweet, and John forgets everything, nerves lighting up.

He feel stripped raw – Bane must not have prepped him for that long after all, and John knows he hadn’t been careful when he’d lowered himself onto Bane’s dick. But the edge of pain just highlights the pleasure, and it’s _so fucking good_ John can barely draw a breath.

He’s sweating; it feels like he’s overheating, even though he’s naked, even though the temperature has been dropping steadily as winter closes in. Bane’s in him, up against him; has his _arms_ around him, one hand steadying John’s hip and the other working his cock. He’s pumping that huge hand in steady strokes and John keeps jerking into that tight, welcome circle before rocking back down onto Bane.

He can feel his orgasm building. It’s a hot, throbbing pressure coiling at the base of his spine, pooling in his cock. John chases the sensation – lifts himself higher, fucks down harder. His muscles are starting to tremble from the effort, but he’s almost there, almost, _almost–_

–and then Bane snaps his hips up. It’s the first hard thrust he’s delivered this entire time, and that does it, that’s _perfect_. John comes, bucking and shouting as he spills over Bane’s fist, filthy and wet.

Even after it’s over, he keeps trying to prolong the sensation; grinds back in small circles, rides out the aftershocks in an unsteady rhythm. But his muscles are done; spent. John collapses back against Bane, eyes wide and a little wet, his breaths coming out in staccato gasps.

Bane lifts John off his cock effortlessly; steadies him with one hand when he almost tumbles off his lap. John can hear him stripping the condom off and tossing it aside, and then he’s pulling John in closer, one hand cupped firmly around his jaw.

Dazed, with his limbs still shaky-weak, John doesn’t put up any resistance. He flinches only a little when Bane presses his face against his neck, the metal tubes of the mask digging into flesh. John can feel each puff of breath against his skin; it makes him shiver. And he can still feel Bane, hard against his ass and the base of his spine–

Did Bane– _did he even come?_ John wonders. He starts to ask, but Bane runs a thumb over his mouth before he can open it. And then he says, “ _Now_ tell me, John. Do you need this?”

John stops breathing.

 _Say no,_ part of him says feebly. _Say no, because you shouldn’t want this. Say no, because you shouldn’t_ need _this. Say it._

He should say it.

But it isn’t true.

Bane raises his head from John’s neck when John doesn’t answer immediately; turns John’s head until they’re looking at one another from only inches away.

The look in Bane’s eyes is still dark. But, for the first time, John sees that they’re devoid of hatred and anger.

“Well?” Bane says, and the fingers gripping John’s jaw tighten a little.

“Yes,” John says, quietly. Then, more firmly, “I do.” The instant the words leave his mouth, something inside him unclenches, or maybe thaws, and the ensuing warmth feels even better than the daze from being fucked-out.

“Good,” Bane says. He sounds pleased, and wholly satisfied – satisfied with _John_.

The flickering warmth in John’s chest grows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo! It only took me two months to update. Go me.
> 
> For general fic updates and nonsense, or just to say hi, y'all can find me at: http://sibilantly.tumblr.com/


End file.
